


Going My Way? (Title subject to change)

by somanyopentabs



Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Prostitution, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-09-08
Updated: 2012-09-08
Packaged: 2017-11-13 19:16:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,407
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/506809
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/somanyopentabs/pseuds/somanyopentabs
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On the run from SHIELD, a desperate Bruce meets Clint, a down-on-his-luck prostitute who is so much more than what he initially seems to be.</p><p>INCOMPLETE</p>
            </blockquote>





	Going My Way? (Title subject to change)

Bruce didn’t make a habit of frequenting bars, but he was desperate for information, and the small town he’d stopped in had limited options.

It was the usual scene, perhaps identical to a half dozen other dive bars within a fifty mile radius. The music was twangy and loud, with a couple overly-enthusiastic drunk patrons singing along off-key. The floor was sticky and tried to cling to Bruce’s second hand sneakers as he walked up to the bar counter.

Bruce ordered a whiskey with carefully practiced ease, don’t mind me, just another lost soul looking for a drink, nothing out of the ordinary, nothing to raise suspicions. He wanted to duck his head, wanted to curl in on himself and nurse his shot of whiskey and be left alone. But the best way to start trouble, he’d found, was to act like you didn’t want any trouble. So he lowered the hood on his sweatshirt, kept his head high, drowning the shot quickly, feeling the burn at the back of his throat. He didn’t drink often—it didn’t do anything to provoke the other guy, what with alcohol being a depressant, but he still needed to stay alert. He’d caught wind of some official sounding people, obviously suits in casual dress, a few towns over, asking questions barely disguised in what had to be a search for him. Hence his current situation; he needed to know which way to run.

Bruce motioned to the bartender, ordering another round and asking, “So, it’s pretty calm around here? I mean, besides the, uh...” Bruce motioned vaguely in what he hoped was a passable substitute for describing the dim ambience of their surroundings.

The bartender, a man just barely scruffier than Bruce himself, shrugged with disinterest, wiping a chipped glass with a towel before setting it on a shelf with a few dozen other unmatched ones.

“We got pool tables, though I wouldn’t go up against those boys over there, unless you wanna lose the shirt off yer back. Don’t tell ‘em I said so, but you look like you can’t afford a game.”

“Right.” Bruce took a deep breath and surreptitiously looked over his shoulder. The bartender was right, of course. The few wrinkled bills he had left in the pocket of his hoodie wouldn’t buy much. He’d come in hoping to glean information without having to pay for it, but the atmosphere wasn’t right for the kind of gossip he was seeking.

“And we got darts,” the bartender added before slipping away to the other end of the bar to serve another round of beers to the couple sitting there—a cheerful-looking blonde woman and a man with a well-trimmed beard who had his arm around her. Couples were out; couples were always out. The last thing Bruce needed was someone thinking he was trying to steal their date away from them.

He glanced back again at the men playing pool. There looked to be about five of them in the main group, with a few spectators standing back and offering jeering commentary where appropriate. On a whim, he sought out the dartboard with his eyes, and was surprised to see a lone man plucking a handful of darts out of the bullseye. Trying not to make it too obvious that he was staring, Bruce watched as the man resumed his position across the room and effortlessly let the darts fly again, one by one. Each one of them hit dead center.

The man looked to be alone, and from the look of his aim, probably not drunk yet. That was promising. The man seemed to be about Bruce’s age, maybe a little younger, and about his height as well. He was freshly shaven and had a sharp look about him, his blue eyes flickering expertly around the room when not staring down piercingly at his target. He was wearing form-fitting jeans that clung to his body in all the right places, and a flimsy black button-up that had been fastened so haphazardly that Bruce could catch glimpses of his broad chest underneath.

If Bruce’s heart hadn’t been thundering so dangerously in his chest, fear and adrenaline warring inside of him at the thought of being captured, then Bruce had to admit he would have been melting a little bit at the sight of the dart player.

Bruce drank his second whiskey, set a few dollars down at the bar, and headed over to the stranger with impeccable aim.

“Noticed you’ve been watching me,” the man said before Bruce could even bring up the courage to say a word to him. “It’s not polite to stare.”  
Bruce had to quell the urge to immediately apologize. Under any other circumstances he would, but he’d learned the hard way that saying sorry was as good as admitting you were guilty, and Bruce couldn’t afford to seem weak. He had to head out, and fast. If only he knew what direction to take; he didn’t want to run right into a trap.

“That’s okay,” The man said when Bruce didn’t say anything right away. “I like putting on a show. For the right person, anyway.” He gifted Bruce with a cocky grin and held out a hand which Bruce immediately took.

“I’m Clint. You got a name?” Clint asked when they had finished shaking hands and Bruce had still not offered up anything in return.

“You want a drink?” Bruce countered.

“Hell, yeah. I like you, whoever you are. Get us a couple rounds and I’ll put on another show for you, if you want.”

Bruce and Clint did a few more shots, with Bruce offering the majority of the drinks up to Clint. Bruce couldn’t get himself too sloshed in the pursuit of information, or he’d be too out of sorts to use it for escaping. Clint did indeed put on another show—when the glasses were empty, he balanced them all precariously, one on top of the other, and then proceeded to juggle. He didn’t drop one, but the bartender still glared at them and issued a warning.

Bruce took that as his cue to leave, with Clint affably trailing along behind him until they reached the alley behind the bar.

“Listen, I need something,” Bruce said, running his hands through his hair and looking beseechingly into Clint’s open face.

“Oh yeah, gorgeous? You don’t say.” In an instant, Clint was crowding Bruce up against the brick wall of the building, his hands on either side of Bruce’s slighter frame. “So, d’you wanna get your dick sucked, or d’you like to be on your knees? I’m game for either, or both.”

Bruce held his breath for a moment. Clint’s lips were so close, full and pink and absolutely inviting, and it had been so long since Bruce had even kissed anyone else. He suppressed the temptation, however great, and took a deep breath that was more like a gasp.

“Not exactly what I had in mind,” Bruce said, sounding weak and apologetic even to his own ears. Clint backed off quickly, frowning a little.

“Straight boy, huh?” The man said the words with mild disdain as he leant up against the wall, flawlessly casual, and lit a cigarette. Bruce was mesmerized for a brief second as he watched Clint bring the cigarette up to his pouting lips, the muscles in his arm flexing as he held the pose, and letting the smoke drift away from his mouth like an afterthought.

Bruce bit his lip, and explained, “I have to leave here soon.”

“And you don’t have time to play?” Clint offered with a smirk.

“I don’t have time for anything. You’re a pretty observant guy, you tell me what you really think.” Bruce shuffled his feet. 

“Who are you running from? I’m guessing this isn’t your real name, either.” Clint held up Bruce’s wallet, complete with fake identification. When had he gotten a hold of that?

Bruce shook his head. “Can I have my wallet back, please?” It didn’t have much, but it was all he had.

Clint pressed the item back into Bruce’s hands easily. “You gonna answer my questions? Look, you obviously need help. Just be up front with me, okay? I’m not gonna do whatever it is you’re worried about, so just tell me.”

Clint finished his cigarette and let it fall to the ground, stomping out the burning ember with the heel of his boot.


End file.
